Sometimes writing can take a lot out of you. Especially when you're channeling everything you've got into one receptacle, it can damage your creativity in the most sly and subtle of ways. Add in a vigorous working schedule, and suddenly you're reading voraciously one minute and the next you're like, "ah, snap, gurl, ain't you gonna finish that?"
But, sometimes, ain't nobody got time for that.
For reading or drawing or film/tv watching or blogging or photographing or any of the other numerous things which incite your creative instincts and pluck your passions from your inner well.
And for a while now, I've been drafting a little suttin' suttin. A manuscript that has seen so many rewrites, I wonder if the story will ever actually be told the way I want it to.
I attack it like it's my day job. Only thing is, it's not. Bitter Harvest--the working title of the project--is a story I started off telling myself for fun, when I was coming in breathless from my day and wanted to give myself something wondrous to do. I wanted to swap worlds for a little while.
I have a day job. One that eats 90% of my time, and if I start regarding one of my passion projects as hard, sweaty work (which it is, actually, but the trick is to keep the blinders on), while going about an already rigorous time expense that pays my bills, like I have been, then it's no wonder I've felt devastated.
And tired. And unfulfilled.
There is no rush. At the end of the road, do I want to see myself published? Absolutely. But, really, if it happens in another five, ten, fifteen years, will I really be mad? I'm training myself to realize I shouldn't be. Because successful publication and eternal glory, while nice, isn't what I want to define my life right now. I want to tell myself a story.
Then another. And another.
Until I tell them wholly. And well.
In the meantime, there's so much of life I've only sipped, and I'm ready for a hearty drink. I'm not just a collector of experiences; I'm a consumer. Not in the soul-sucking, ever-shopping-for sense. In the no-holds-barred devouring sense. And I want to do all these things, as I write. Because they can only enhance the stories I'm telling.
And when the night quits whispering for me to stay awake, these stories are how I get myself sleeping. The promise and allure and scope of these lives I slip into while daydreaming. Fictitious friends who beckon.
I don't want to shake them until they tell me everything. We're not at that point yet. I'm not facing a dead end, as I'd have myself believe. So, I'm going to get through the books I'm reading, without feeling guilty. Like I'm neglecting something that's always there, breathing softly beside a slew of other thoughts and dreams.
I'm going to focus on other forms of writing I enjoy. Like blog writing. I like to travel blog as well, as I've been exploring bits and pieces of the world these last couple of years, and there's more to be done.
My time has been fruitful. When I'm doing something besides novel writing, it's not a waste of time. It's not a criminal offense against myself and whatever talent I possess. The skills are being honed, as often as I can manage.
I've been dictating to myself a very precise, very harsh rule for success. Defining and caging and branding my worth, my value, based off how complete the Big Dreams are.
I'm okay with admitting writing a novel is only one of them. I'm resuming the buoyant belief that humans can--and maybe even should--have more than one.
I wouldn't want things to get boring. It's so exciting to dream.
Another dream of mine is to see Mine for the Reading being read. Relished. Not merely enjoyed. Savored, like the end of the day with your wine, or your partner, or your pillow, or your favorite tv show. A comfort that's both homey and luxurious, familiar and rare.
I'm going to make you laugh. Like I do with all my friends. I want to tell you stories about the stories I've read, like I do with my friends and family. I want to make you care about them before you've even picked up the book I'm talking about.
I used to do that. I used to be good at it. I think I still am. Give me a chance.
You're going to see more posts over the next few weeks. Some may be single reviews, some may be highlighted books, some may be book inspiration posts or topics for discussion. We're going to have a grand ol' time.
I hope you'll join me for the next post.
But, sometimes, ain't nobody got time for that.
For reading or drawing or film/tv watching or blogging or photographing or any of the other numerous things which incite your creative instincts and pluck your passions from your inner well.
I attack it like it's my day job. Only thing is, it's not. Bitter Harvest--the working title of the project--is a story I started off telling myself for fun, when I was coming in breathless from my day and wanted to give myself something wondrous to do. I wanted to swap worlds for a little while.
I have a day job. One that eats 90% of my time, and if I start regarding one of my passion projects as hard, sweaty work (which it is, actually, but the trick is to keep the blinders on), while going about an already rigorous time expense that pays my bills, like I have been, then it's no wonder I've felt devastated.
And tired. And unfulfilled.
Then another. And another.
Until I tell them wholly. And well.
In the meantime, there's so much of life I've only sipped, and I'm ready for a hearty drink. I'm not just a collector of experiences; I'm a consumer. Not in the soul-sucking, ever-shopping-for sense. In the no-holds-barred devouring sense. And I want to do all these things, as I write. Because they can only enhance the stories I'm telling.
And when the night quits whispering for me to stay awake, these stories are how I get myself sleeping. The promise and allure and scope of these lives I slip into while daydreaming. Fictitious friends who beckon.
I don't want to shake them until they tell me everything. We're not at that point yet. I'm not facing a dead end, as I'd have myself believe. So, I'm going to get through the books I'm reading, without feeling guilty. Like I'm neglecting something that's always there, breathing softly beside a slew of other thoughts and dreams.
I'm going to focus on other forms of writing I enjoy. Like blog writing. I like to travel blog as well, as I've been exploring bits and pieces of the world these last couple of years, and there's more to be done.
My time has been fruitful. When I'm doing something besides novel writing, it's not a waste of time. It's not a criminal offense against myself and whatever talent I possess. The skills are being honed, as often as I can manage.
I've been dictating to myself a very precise, very harsh rule for success. Defining and caging and branding my worth, my value, based off how complete the Big Dreams are.
I'm okay with admitting writing a novel is only one of them. I'm resuming the buoyant belief that humans can--and maybe even should--have more than one.
Another dream of mine is to see Mine for the Reading being read. Relished. Not merely enjoyed. Savored, like the end of the day with your wine, or your partner, or your pillow, or your favorite tv show. A comfort that's both homey and luxurious, familiar and rare.
I'm going to make you laugh. Like I do with all my friends. I want to tell you stories about the stories I've read, like I do with my friends and family. I want to make you care about them before you've even picked up the book I'm talking about.
I used to do that. I used to be good at it. I think I still am. Give me a chance.
You're going to see more posts over the next few weeks. Some may be single reviews, some may be highlighted books, some may be book inspiration posts or topics for discussion. We're going to have a grand ol' time.
I hope you'll join me for the next post.
Credit: Quotes by Mary Oliver.
